L'Amour's Dance
by NevaehCrimsonMoore
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy and Matthew Williams have a steamy encounter late one evening after one too many drinks at the local bar... AU oneshot, and no lemon! Sorry! Rated M for suggestive themes... and France being a perv...


A/N: Franada. My OTP forever. 3 What is it with me and loving the pervert characters with the sweet innocent characters? Also, excuse the awful title. I don't even know if 'L'amour' means love in French – I've just read it in fanfics, so I used it. Good enough for them, good enough for me. Until a reader who speaks French reviews and tells me I just butchered the French language, in which case, should they provide me with a correct alternative, I shall change it. That goes for all my French phrases! I know nothing of the language, so what I've written is basically guess work based off other Franada fics! ^^;

Also, this is unbeta-ed. So dear Nevaeh here is the only one to edit it. Which means it's probably littered with typos or just plain bad English… though I fancy I have quite good grammar.

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia or any of it's characters. Matthew Williams and Francis Bonnefoy, better known as Canada and France belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. **

'**Paris Is Indeed Splendid' belongs to whoever wrote France's Character Song.** (It comes in briefly. 'Parari Paris' is the opening line of the song.) Seriously. Listen to his character songs. They are magnifique. ('Embrace the Tres Bien Moi' and 'Paris Is Indeed Splendid')

In other words, **I own nothing**** but the story of 'L'amour's Dance'.**

France's dialogue has the 'h's cut out from the beginning of his words. Someone once told me that the French have silent 'h's. Feel free to correct me! And I didn't want to change the 'th's to 'z's. I didn't want to make it look gaudy. ^^;

ON WIZ ZE STORY, OHONHONHON~

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_L'Amour's Dance_

Matthew moaned against the lips of his lover as he was pushed up against the inside of the door that clicked shut at the pressure. The hungry lips of the Frenchman moved on his own, and a starved tongue pushed through to dance with the younger mans. It was a tango, passion writhing through their beings, hard and fast as they kissed, and despite the fact that they were both quite drunk, the dance was not sloppy. It was perfect, heated and … smooth. A waltz could never have satisfied the fervour of Francis's desperate, wandering hands.

Matthew's shirt was discarded somewhere, he didn't pay attention to where, nor did he care. He was just eager for the fabric to be lifted over his head so that his lips could be crushed to his lovers again. But the lips didn't come.

Instead Matthew, a nineteen year old Canadian student at the Montreal university studying literature and creative writing, was gently tugged away from the door that his back was becoming so accustomed to, and found himself twirling into Francis's arms, his back against his chest. Matthew squeaked. Francis chuckled.

"_L'amour_," he said, "is not without flourish, _mon_ _cher_." And they danced, well, swayed, towards Matthew's bed, hot and bothered bodies pressed together, while Francis hummed a tune into Matthews ear – his voice was wonderful. Warm hands ghosted over the Canadians chest, and one hand stopped over his fluttering heart while the other trailed down his taut, muscular body to rest on his hip. "_L'amour _must be cherished." That bed didn't seem to be getting any closer. "_L'amour _is something to enjoy, to savour." His breath was tickling the shell of his ear, and his stubble brushed against his delicate skin softly. It felt utterly superb, the younger of the two couldn't help but muse. He felt the hair scratch against him as the Frenchman smiled. "Won't you savour this love with me?"

Matthew's heart seemed to falter, losing all rhythm for a moment when that four letter word was spoken.

Never before had Matthew heard of using the 'L' word during a one night stand — it caught him off guard. In English, the word seemed to carry so much more weight… In French? Not so much. Despite the fact that it was his second language, he knew that French was a romantic language. It was made for seduction. English, being his first language, spoke too him far too personally. It honestly frightened him a little, and his heart was thundering in his chest as his blush rose to his cheeks, spreading to his ears and neck.

The man behind him laughed a deep, throaty laugh, and tapped the hand over his heart gently against the skin. "Sorry, _mon cher_. Your 'eart was beating fast, I only wanted to see if it could go any faster…"

Matthew managed a strangled laugh when his respiratory system seemed to be working again. Lips were on the Canadian's neck again, and Francis was humming the tune, swaying them towards the bed.

"It could," he eventually said when they were upon the double bed.

"Oh?" Matthew asked. He had a dozen romantic and sexy things to say, but nothing worked — his drunk mouth couldn't form the words, despite the loss of inhibitions. He was just too shy, even alcohol couldn't cure him, and that body against him was far bolder than any he had ever has the pleasure of knowing. Matthew tended to steer clear of people like the one behind him — they were the ones that always forgot him, or thought he wouldn't mind if they used him. But they were the sort of people that attracted him – so many of his 'friends' were wild, vivacious and untrustworthy. Come to think of it… he supposed he didn't have many friends. He admired plenty of people, but they didn't seem to think he existed in the shadow of his brother.

Francis turned him around to face him, "Like a frightened rabbit," and his lips were devoured as he was pushed to the bed.

Francis stood over him, bathed in the moonlight that streamed in through the sheer white curtains. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, still moving his hips to the song in his head, and the sight was more than a little erotic for the teenager, who couldn't help but feel his jeans tighten. Francis seemed to notice this, and his cerulean eyes gleamed. "Excited, I see?"

Matthew's flush spread all over his body at that. "Sh-shut up…" he mumbled, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sensual dance being performed over him.

The last button slipped through the hole, and Francis shrugged the white shirt off onto the ground, revealing a firm, muscular chest that was graced with a few tufts of blond hair — they just made him seem all the manlier. "Mm, make me…" he dared softly, leaning over him. Their noses touched. Matthew could smell the wine on Francis's breath, and Francis could probably smell the beer that Matthew had spent his evening drowning himself in.

And he honestly went to do just that. He looked up into those gentle, blue eyes, reflecting the clearest ocean, and couldn't help but feel the most indescribable trust for them, despite having lost his faith in people so spontaneous, so untamed. Tentatively, he touched the hot body above him, just brushing it with his cool finger tips at the waist. Francis winced a little at the cold hands, and Matthew withdrew immediately.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me — I knew my hands were cold so I shouldn't have touched you, and…" he trailed off when he saw that Francis's eyes glistened with mirth, and a smile tugged at his lips. "Sorry…" he muttered, avoiding looking at the man above him.

Suddenly everything got a lot clearer, and his glasses were pried off of his head — he was longsighted, so in such close quarters with someone, it was in fact easier to see them without the glasses. They were folded and placed on the bedside table. "It just means you 'aven't been touching me enough. I 'aven't warmed your 'ands up properly."

Matthew nodded, embarrassed, but still cast his eyes downward. Which meant he was unintentionally staring at their crotches. That were flush against each others. Of course, Francis noticed this, and rolled his hips against the younger mans gently, causing the nineteen year old to cry out in shock and pleasure, bringing his attention back to where it was required. The Frenchman leaned in close, "So touch me, _mon Canadien_," he growled into his ear. Swallowing hard, he reached up again to caress the soft skin over him, and this time he didn't flinch at the cold hands that ever so lightly ghosted over his skin.

Francis laughed, and rolled over Matthew, pulling the young man with him to reposition themselves so that they were both entirely on the bed, and Matthew was laying on top him. "Is this your first time?" Francis asked sympathetically, nestling his head into a pillow that smelled of the Canadian. Matthew shook his head, and buried it into his lovers chest.

"Just… it's my first time with a man, I don't really know what to do…" He was sure it was basically the same, but it still made him nervous.

Francis patted his back gently, and Matthew looked up to see him smiling charmingly at him, "_Merci _— I feel honoured to be your first time with a male, so don't worry! Experiment with me. Do what feels right. Just, one request, _mon cher_," he said. He was smirking. Matthew looked at him quizzically with innocent, wide violet eyes. "I'd like to be the one to take you this evening… I'm not exactly picky, but this first time, I think you should experience it for all it is, _oui_?"

Matthew was sure he was the colour of the maple leaf on his flag, and he was positively frozen in the spot — this man, a stranger in all actuality, was too much! Francis stroked his cheek lovingly, "You're adorable," he sighed.

"You just… you say such embarrassing things!" he said. The hand on his cheek came to rest over his lips, effectively shushing him.

"I told you, Matthieu, make me shut up, then. Kiss me." He shifted uncomfortably at the boys stillness, and apparent unwillingness to press his lips to his. "This is the point in which you kiss me, unless you want me start singing about how splendid my home town is… I'm quite the patriot, you know…"

It was too embarrassing. Far too embarrassing. Sure, they'd been kissing all evening, sure, they'd had their hands all over each other… but Matthew hadn't instigated any of the contact, and he really hadn't really touched Francis all that much — the Frenchman had had his hands all over him and he'd been too busy writhing under his touch to return the favour. But he had to. Those beautiful blue eyes were gazing at him expectantly. So he tried again, summoning as much courage as he could, which shouldn't have been hard as he really had drank enough beer to fill a pool that night, and nervously straddled him. He looked to Francis for approval, which the other gave with a small nod, and leaned over his lover. Again, their breath mingled in a charged gap between their lips.

"Parari _Paris_," he began to sing in his languid French accent which changed 'Paris' to 'Pari', and smiled when Matthew finally closed the gap, his blond hair tickling his stubbled cheeks. It was chaste, but Francis didn't argue, nor did he deepen it. He had relinquished control. Matthew, when he realized this, had half a mind to pull away and have Francis sing the rest of his song for him — even with just two words, he could tell that his voice was splendid — but he was already desperate for the other's touch, and he would have to be daft if he couldn't tell that Francis was harbouring a sizeable bulge in his pants already.

So he deepened the kiss, daring even to run his tongue over the others lips. Francis granted him access whole heartedly, but didn't give into the desire to plunge his tongue into his mouth, and this time Matthew explored the older man's warm cavern, rather than the other way around.

Even in his relationships with women, he'd always managed to be the one to have his mouth violated, to have his body quivering with need and lust… he'd never been given a chance to give another person such sensations. It was a breath of fresh air. Ah yes, Matthew remembered, breathing – he hadn't done that in a while. How is it that breathing can become so trivial in the throes of passion? He pulled away slowly, savouring the taste of wine and saliva on his tongue, and a string of saliva connected them. Francis lapped it up, and licked his lips hungrily as his lover sat up for a moment. "'ow do I taste?" he asked.

"Maple! You say such embarrassing things!" Matthew repeated. Francis didn't have to tell him what to do this time, and another kiss, sure and firm this time, effectively 'shut him up'.

They didn't do a whole lot of talking after that.

.-~*End*~-.

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A/N: Okay, you caught me! I am totally planning a bunch of aftermath about this, and premath (if there's such a thing), but for now, I think it works as a standalone. So, yes, I am planning more – but my track record with completing fanfics, or stories of any sort is very, _very _bad. So, I'm going to withhold it until I finish it. If I finish it.

Also… love for this oneshot would _definitely _inspire me to write my longer Franada fic… *cough cough review cough cough I AM A SUBTLE SONNAVABETCH… cough* But flames make me sad. Do you want me to cry?

**EDIT: **** DAMN YOU KIND ANONYMOUS REVIEWER WHO HELPED ME WITH THE FRENCH. Apparently the french is quite alright (apart from the title, but I'm not sure I should change it after uploading it as this), but I just wanted to say, thankyou for letting me know! It means a lot to me. 3 **

**Each and every review has completely and utterly made my day. When I woke up and found a bunch of faves and reviews, I literally did a happy dance. YOU GUYS ROCK.**


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